Insidious was this most debilitating side of depression…
Not stolen mornings, wrapped under covers
Keeping out yet another goddamned day,
Blocking fog from my senses, or magpies, and jasmine scent
Not friends tiring, leaving because my vampire self
Took all I could and left little in turn to replenish the souls
Of those I love, who left because it’s for my own good
Not the ruin of creativity, or flattened passion,
Destroying works before their creation, as if I’d lit a fire
Built of all the beauty I could have made or hoped for.
But the awful, insidious terrible lie
“This is who I am…”
— Dana Sibera
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